A long night at Tio Lucas

I like Tio Lucas. It’s not the best restaurant in town but the charming owner, Max, is very friendly and always gives me a good table, even when I am alone as I was tonight. The best tables are in the courtyard beneath a leafy ficus tree that is hung with those punched tin star lights known as Moravian estrellas. I don’t know why but I’ve always loved these Mexican star lights and always thought that someday I would string dozens of them over my patio, the way Dianne has done on the rooftop terrace atop her B&B, Casa Luna Pila Seca.

The author and a street dog in San Miguel. Photo by David Lansing.

Although it was almost nine, there was only one other party dining, two women—a mother and her daughter, I imagined—who were quickly drinking glasses of red wine and seemed uncomfortable with each other. The daughter looked to be in her late 30’s and was homely. Her mother was all dolled up and wore a low-cut peasant blouse accenting her figure.

Because they were sitting right next to me, I kept catching snippets of their conversation. The daughter was from New York. The mother, who had long, bleached-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, seemed to be just drunk enough to prefer listening to her daughter ramble on while doing little talking herself. It seemed from the conversation that the mother was a widow who lives in San Miguel and perhaps was trying to convince her daughter to move here as well. I got the feeling that something had happened to the daughter and that was part of why the conversation was so uncomfortable.

“I’m doing much better now, Mother,” said the daughter. “Really. The meds have kicked in and I’m starting to feel good about myself. So I don’t think now would be the best time to make a move.”

I ordered a Negra Modelo and though there were several waiters leaning against the walls, talking in whispers while playing with their bow ties, it took forever to get my beer and when it came it was not a Modelo and the waiter realized it the same time I did and, chagrined, apologized and hurried away with it.

Usually when I come to Tio Lucas I have the Caesar salad, which they prepare at the table, the way they used to years ago at any good restaurant, and the arrachera, which is a grilled flank steak. But I wasn’t all that hungry so instead I ordered the tacos Chihuahua, something I hadn’t had before. They came about the same time my beer arrived. The meat in the tacos had a bitter, sour taste to it, like beans that have sat at the bottom of a pot for a week, so I concentrated on the guacamole and chips, which were very good, and a little salad.

After awhile I pushed the plate to the side and ordered another Negra Modelo and this time it came immediately and was very, very cold. That’s when Max came over and asked me, in perfect English, if there was anything wrong with the tacos Chihuahua.

As I said, I like Max. I told him they were fine.

“Demasiada comida,” I said.

But it was good? he asked.

Yes, I told him, they were fine.

I sat around the restaurant slowly drinking my beer. A jazz band started playing up on a little stage set up in the corner of the room. When they took a break there was an interesting exchange between one of the musicians and the young woman from New York but I’ll save that story for tomorrow.

After awhile I paid my bill and then went for a walk along Mesones under the yellow street lights. I was feeling tired and maybe a little bit lost, the way I sometimes feel when I’ve been traveling for a long stretch of time. I kept going up one street after another until I suddenly realized that I’d been walking in the opposite direction of where I wanted to go and that it would take me a good hour to get back. So instead I flagged down a taxi and had him take me to Calle Aldana across from the Parque Benito Juárez. Neither one of us spoke. When I got back to my casita I was so tired that I got into bed without taking my clothes off. One of the landlady’s cats, Chica, came in from hunting moths in the courtyard and nestled at my feet. For tonight, I let her stay.